


Hospital Promises

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a hard day in the hospital and just wants to go home. Until a patient comes in that's remarkably familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hospital Promises

John slipped into the break room in the hospital quickly, finally having a few minutes to breathe. The emergency room had been busy and John had been moving from patient to patient since he’d clocked in this morning. Which, really, was what John had been looking for when he’d quit the clinic. After all, running through the streets of London after criminals with Sherlock had given John something to live for after his injury in the army. The clinic just wasn’t giving him the adrenaline rush that John craved. When Molly had mentioned that St. Bart’s was hiring about six months after Sherlock’s fall, John had jumped at the chance.

Which led to this moment and John stretching his arms above his head and groaning in the break room. He took several deep breaths and sighed, finally feeling like he wasn’t running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Settling into a chair, John propped his head up on his hand and closed his eyes. He still had about an hour and a half left of his shift and was dreading what might walk through the door. Or be pushed on a gurney, as the case may be. After all, John wouldn’t leave if a patient needed him and his shift had ended. That just wasn’t the type of man he was. John let his mind wander while his body relaxed and wasn’t at all surprised that he immediately thought of Sherlock and the short time he’d had with the detective.

“I’m still waiting for the miracle, Sherlock,” John murmured wryly to the empty room. He kept his eyes closed for another few seconds before opening them and looking around. Of course, the room was still empty, John’s breaths the only sound in the space. John chuckled, nothing of humor and all sorrow in the sound. “Worth a try, I guess.”

“Paging Dr. Watson,” a female voice came over the intercom. John recognized it as one of the nurses on duty in the emergency room. “Paging Dr. Watson. Incoming trauma patient.”

“I suppose my break’s over,” John said, heaving himself to his feet with another tired sigh. “Wonder what it is this time?”

It turned out to be four people from the same car accident. The patient John worked on was female and had a broken leg along with lacerations over a lot of her body. The other patients were divided among the other doctors working in the emergency room. There were various injuries though John had the patient who was in the best shape. After checking to make sure her leg was still stabilized, John gave her a shot of morphine through the IV the paramedics had started. Then, he started working on picking glass out of her lacerations. It was slow and John had to work hard to keep his hands steady every time she flinched. It wouldn’t do to cut her further or drive the shards in deeper. Once that was finished, John cleaned off the blood and stitched the lacerations that needed it. Most of them did but quite a few were small enough to be fine healing on their own.

“Take her to orthopedics,” John instructed one of the nurses when he was done. “They can cast her leg.”

The nurse nodded and wheeled the woman away. But they had only gone a few steps before the woman twisted on the gurney and groggily thanked John. He nodded and smiled, waving as the nurse continued on. He shrugged out of the suit he’d put on to protect his clothes then took his gloves off. There was blood all over the gloves and specks on the suit. Tossing them into the biohazard bin gave John a few moments to breathe and check the clock before another patient claimed his attention. He’d taken about half an hour to deal with all the glass and stitches though it had felt like a far shorter time. That always happened when John was concentrating hard.

“John, need your help in here!” an intern’s voice called from another room. John pulled on another suit and pair of gloves, running as he maneuvered his fingers into the gloves. While he’d been working on his patient, another had come in with several gunshot wounds. “We need another pair of hands.”

“Right,” John said, taking stock of what had been done so far. One nurse and another doctor were working on closing some of the holes while the intern went back to suctioning blood away. John started on another wound, not even sparing a glance at the patient’s face. That wasn’t important now. What was important was stopping the bleeding and repairing as much damage as they could so the patient would survive. Besides, their job wasn’t to do everything but get the patient stable enough for further surgery if needed. That took about another half hour and the patient was wheeled away by another nurse. He would live though with several scars.

“John, there’s a knife wound coming in and you’re the only one free,” an intern said, walking quickly up to John. “I know you haven’t had your break yet but can you take it?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” John said, stripping of his protective gear again to replace it. “How long do I have before the patient comes in?”

“I’d say about a second,” the intern smiled wryly when the babble of paramedic’s voices reached them. John laughed quietly then hurried to the room the patient had been wheeled into. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, something about the eyes that skipped around the room. His shaggy hair was a dark blond and as unwashed as his ragged, baggy clothes were. He was painfully thin and his cheekbones stood out in stark relief. That combined with the slight shaking in the man’s hands made John think that he might be an addict. Perhaps cocaine or something similar.

“Thanks,” John said to the paramedic who filled him in. There was a fairly deep wound in the man’s left arm and a slightly shallower gash in his stomach. It wasn’t quite life-threatening, not yet, but the man could bleed out if left untreated. “My name’s Dr. Watson and I’ll be taking care of you. What’s your name?”

“Name’s not important,” the man said, his voice sounding strangely high. John chalked it up to him coming down from whatever drug he’d taken or withdrawal. “What’s important is you fixing me so I can get out of here.”

“That’s the plan,” John replied cheerfully, cutting through the man’s sleeve to have an easier time accessing the wound in his arm. That one was first as it was more pressing. “What happened? Did you get mugged? We can get the police in here when I’m done if you want to give a statement or something.”

“No, no statements,” the man said determinedly, gripping John’s arm for a moment before pulling away. “It doesn’t matter.”

John looked at him for a moment, feeling his stomach knot together as those pale blue eyes bored into his own. They were so familiar, so reminiscent of... But that was impossible and John resolutely pulled his thoughts away from that path. People don’t come back from the dead, even people who were impossible themselves. Finishing cleaning the wound, which appeared to be made with a sharp knife as the edges were crisp, John pulled out needle and thread to start stitching it together. Every once in a while, he’d check the bandage on the man’s stomach but it didn’t appear to be bleeding any heavier.

“You have a steady hand,” the man remarked when John was almost through stitching the wound in his upper arm. “And very even stitches. Rather remarkable, actually.”

“Thank you,” John said, not looking up as he pulled the needle through skin again. “I’ve always had steady hands. Makes the work go much easier. Plus, you either learn to keep your head in Afghanistan or you lose it.”

The man was silent while John finished stitching which, to be quite honest, John was thankful for. He was feeling uncomfortable, as if there was an answer hovering right in front of him that John couldn’t quite see. After snipping the excess thread, John lifted up the man’s shirt and pulled the bandage off his stomach. The wound had pretty much stopped bleeding and the edges were just as crisp as on the wound in his arm. Whatever knife had cut him had been exceedingly sharp. John cleaned the dried blood off and made sure the wound itself was clean. Then, he began the same series of stitches he’d used earlier.

“So you were an army doctor and very good,” the man said suddenly, his voice slowly dropping to a lower pitch. He sounded thoughtful, considering. “Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths?”

“Yes, enough for a lifetime,” John responded absently though warning bells went off in his head. He’d had almost this exact conversation before. Then it hit him. His fingers freezing, John lifted his eyes to meet the man’s. It couldn’t be...

“Want to see some more?” the man asked, his lips curling into a smug smile. John could only stare, mouth falling open in surprise. He _knew_! How could he know?

“Oh god....,” John finally said, voice faint. “S...Sherlock?”

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said, his smile growing wider. “Trauma doctor now, huh? I can understand it. You must have missed the adrenaline and the thrill from your army days.”

“Army days?” John repeated, confused. “No, not that. _You_ , Sherlock. You and the chase and the criminals and the back streets of London.”

Without warning, John dropped the needle and thread and lunged at Sherlock. He pulled the man into a tight hug, though a small part of him had made sure the thread wouldn’t pull at Sherlock’s wound nor the needle stab either of them. Automatically, he felt for Sherlock’s pulse, fingers wrapping around Sherlock’s wrist as if they were never going to let go. Sherlock sat in surprise for a few moments before hugging John back. A knot unwound in his chest; while Sherlock could deduce anything about anyone, John had always been a delightful conundrum at times.

“Thank you, thank you,” John murmured, repeating the words into the skin of Sherlock’s neck. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that but it was pleasant and calming. Sherlock’s loss had been like a hole in John’s chest, something the wind whistled through and he couldn’t forget no matter how much he’d moved on. Now that was filled with warm and _breathing_ Sherlock and suddenly all the words John had never said flooded up and choked him. Tears fell from his eyes as John realized his miracle had been granted.

“I’m back, John,” Sherlock said, slightly unnecessarily but it seemed to be the right thing to say. Besides, there were things he should have said a long time ago and Sherlock had decided they would start with that sentence. “I’ve missed you and I’m sorry to have put you through everything. Mycroft... Mycroft told me how hard it was for you. If there had been any other way, I would have taken it in a heartbeat. But I’ve come back and, if you’ll have me, I’m not going anywhere again.”

“If I’ll have you? Of course I will! Sherlock, do you have any idea how lonely and dull it’s been without you?” John exclaimed, pulling back to stare into Sherlock’s eyes. That penetrating gaze swept over his face and John let his emotions flow across his face. He didn’t want to hide anything right now anyway. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Sherlock smiled and nodded and John used that moment to lean forward and press his lips gently to the other man’s. He would be lying if he said he’d never thought of doing that before Sherlock’s apparent death but John had never acted on it. He’d been too afraid to ruin the friendship he’d come to value. But, after losing that friendship anyway, John had decided that if he ever got the chance, he’d take it. And it wasn’t one-sided to go by the way Sherlock kissed him back. It was desperate and quick and burning, as if Sherlock was trying to put three years of loss and longing into the kiss. John would have been perfectly happy to continue, to press his own loss into Sherlock’s skin with his lips, but Sherlock hissed as he shifted and John remembered the partly-stitched wound.

“Sherlock, I need to finish this,” John said, pulling back and checking the wound again. It had bled a tiny bit and John wiped the blood away. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Then we’ll talk,” Sherlock repeated, his tone making it sound like a promise. It was a promise John would hold him to, a promise John would make himself.


End file.
